


Siren's Kiss

by RoboFrorg (JasperMoar)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Desert Island, Do not repost anywhere. AO3 only., HCRBB, Hank the Reluctant Survivalist, HankCon Reverse Big Bang 2019, M/M, Sumo the 'sorry for trying to kill you' dog, Year 1692
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 17:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20450861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperMoar/pseuds/RoboFrorg
Summary: Hank wakes to warmth. Hank wakes to pain. Hank- wakes.Which is unexpected at all, really. For a moment, he simply breathes in the burning sun, marveling at the fact that he still can.---After following his own moral compass, Hank Anderson finds himself cast overboard, sentenced to keelhauling by his cruel captain. But an unexpected savior saves Hank's life, and Hank now faces the challenge of carving out a life for himself far from any other human.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HankCon Reverse Big Bang directory: HankConRBB.wordpress.com
> 
> My partner in this endeavor can be found [HERE](ostrich-cakes.tumblr.com)! Go look at her art and other fannish offerings!

_Bad idea. Really fucking Bad Idea_! his common sense screams within his skull as Hank heaves on the crowbar he’s got wedged between the salt-stained lock and the thick glass of the murky tank. Salt water wets the planks beneath his feet, not quite dry from the initial struggle the _Dancing Pawn_’s most recent pull kicked up when the sun still shone above. Now though, even the moon has turned her eyes away, hidden behind a veil of thick clouds as she is. The tank before him remains as still and silent as the sea upon which the Dancing Pawn sails. Only the weak fluttering of gills and the odd twitch of a tail belays the survival of the tiny sirens piled together in the tank’s far corner. 

With a horrendous groan, the iron lock snaps open, and Hank freezes even as the young sirens stir to life in a flurry of bioluminescent flares and flicking fins. The bigger ones- the older few that remind Hank of his own long-lost boy- immediately ring the smaller ones. The little children. The single infant. Hank ignores them for the moment, instead choosing to burst back into action. He wrangles the twisted lock from it’s eye and sets it gently on damp wood. There are two more locks to break, and he doesn’t have much time. An aggressive drinking game with Reed- the young bastard charged with second watch- means that he has this window of opportunity, but it won’t last long. Sooner or later Myers is gonna look down from his perch in the crow’s nest and find an empty deck where Reed oughta be patrolling, and then the whole damn crew’s gonna come down around Hank’s ears.

A webbed child-sized hand smacks furiously against the glass, the tiny claws tinking like sand in a glass bottle, and Hank winces. The thud doesn’t make much of an impact over the sound of the ship cutting through water, but Hank’s about as jittery as a bait fish on a line. His neck’s forfeit one way or another, but- Jesus, these are kids. Monstrous, scaly, pointy-toothed kids, but- kids. Children. Not exotic pets.

He holds a finger to his lips, and the snarling child hesitates. Snowy blonde hair drifts around it’s- her?- elfin face, and Hank turns his attention away from her to wriggle the pinched crowbar beneath the loop of the second lock.

The tank flickers yellow and red in turns like so many fireflies swarming together as the gem-like scales speckling the sirens’ bodies here and there shift as rapidly as a bird’s beating wings. He glances to the doorway Captain Kamski’d had them cobble together when he made the shift from hunting pirates to hunting rarities. He broke the lock there too, but he closed the door behind him and shoved the crate heavy with dried fish- food for the sirens- before it to keep it shut. Even so, Hank expects the crew to come pounding on the door any moment now. 

The second lock comes off with that same horrible squealing snap, and the third follows soon after. He kicks all three aside and drags a barrel of water over to clamber upon. The moment Hank pries the tank’s lid open, the children scatter and dive, seeking refuge at the bottom of their tank. 

“Aw, no, no c’mon,” he pleads under his breath, dipping his fingers into the water. He’s pretty sure the scuppers of this lower deck are _just_ big enough to fit the kids through and get them back out into the water, but there’s no chance in hell of that happening if he can’t get his hands on them. He splashes at the water like he’s playing with Cole again, and finally- _finally_\- a little brown-haired siren with golden eyes flits up towards him despite the grasping hands trying to keep her in place.

She remains just out of reach, but her frilled ears twitch minutely when she surfaces. Her eyes peek up out of the fouled water, but she won’t come any farther. Better than nothing.

Hank realizes in that moment that he isn’t even sure whether these things speak English. He licks his chapped lips, swallows around the lump in his throat, and decides fuck it. He has to try.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” he begins slowly, urgently. He beckons her closer, and after a moment she drifts near. Not within arm’s reach, but closer. Close enough that when he points to the dark mouth of the scuppers she follows his gesture. The red of her scales flickers to amber, and she perks up. “Hey, listen. Listen, kid.” Her eyes shift back to him, and Hank leans over the tank, his open hand outstretched. She flinches away but doesn’t dive. “I can get you out. You’ve gotta trust me.” 

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. Just- watches. Hank glances to the door again, acutely aware of each second trickling by. A clammy wet touch drags his attention back, and he finds the young siren’s hand perched tentatively atop his. Hank doesn’t close his hand, though. Instead, he lets her pull away again and dive back underneath the water, gone again like a shadow in the sun. 

The rippling glow of the tank shifts to blue in a heartbeat, and water splashes against the rim of the tank as the children come swarming up. Something unclenches inside Hank, and for the first time since slipping a jug of booze from the galley he can breathe. 

They’re timid- understandably so. Most of the kids had been herded away from their elders and caught with nets, but a handful bear the sluggishly-bleeding marks of Kamski’s harpoon. Even so, Hank manages to get the one he thinks is oldest out first. The boy clings to Hank, gills fluttering rapidly as Hank carries him to the scupper like he’s bringing his sleepy son to be tucked in. He sets the boy down, and his scales flash between blue and amber as Hank helps him slide through the scupper. It’s a tight fit, but the moment Hank hears a splash below he scrambles back across the room to grab the next child.

One by one he hauls the larger kids out of the tank and across the floor and leaves them to slip through the drainage hole on their own. They’re damn heavy little fucks. He switches over to the truly small ones next, leaving the middling kids for last. He just- he prays to a god he isn’t sure he believes in that the first sirens are waiting down below to help these little ones, especially as he reluctantly sends the infant out in the arms of a kid only slightly older. 

The thunder of steps barging down the stairway just outside the door sends a jolt through his heart like a beat’s been skipped. 

“Shit,” he hisses, slipping on the slicked wood planks in his haste to return to the tank. He hits the ground with a sickening pop and a red-hot flash of searing pain, but as someone pounds on the door, he forces himself back to his feet. Popped shoulder be damned, those kids are going overboard. 

“Anderson!” Kamski’s slimy voice roars, muffled only slightly by thick wood. “I’ll flay you alive, you tar-blooded traitor!” 

“You never had my loyalty in the first place,” Hank spits back. Can a pressed sailor really betray his keeper? With no loyalty promised and no pay pocketed, what else can Kamski expect but a good old-fashioned backstabbing from one of his kidnapped crewmembers? 

Hank makes a single attempt to clamber back onto the barrel, but his right arm offers no more use than a toy soldier’s snapped sword. Okay. Think. _Think._ Four more children tread water at the surface of their prison, their glowing scales a bloody red. Kamski and his hired sailors batter at the door, wedging the crates just a little further out with every slam. 

But he has a crowbar. 

He shoves the radiating pain to the back of his mind and lunges for the crowbar. The iron feels awkward in his left hand, but he can barely lift the other arm, let alone swing with it. The patches of light on the remaining sirens deepens to maroon as Hank lays into the glass of the tank. He has no idea how thick it is, and indeed, the first blows only dig chips out of the smooth surface, but persistence pays off. The first hairline fracture sets grim satisfaction to simmer in his chest, and he adjusts his hold on the crowbar.

A sound like cracking ice hits Hank as his next strike lands, and water begins to seep down the side of the tank.

Kamski’s ranting cuts off abruptly, and the voice of his first mate replaces him. 

“You’re toeing the edge, Anderson,” Chloe warns through the scant inch the door’s been opened. “You know what you face. Open the door, and we’ll see about smoothing things out a little, aye?” 

Hank doesn’t bother to respond. Just one more-

The tank explodes out in a wave of glass and water. The force knocks him off his feet, and by the time it subsides glass shards scatter the soaked space, but not a siren remains in sight. He lets his head thump back against the bulkhead, spitting salt from his mouth. The iron rests limply in his fist, and he- settles. Wood splinters as someone finally takes a saber to the door hinges. There’s nowhere for him to go, and the children are safe in the sea. He’s been trapped on this godawful ship for a year and a half now, pressed from a stranded fishing vessel as payment for a tow. Worked like a dog when there’s nowhere to run, locked in the brig with the other pressed sailors when there’s a chance of freedom at port. He doesn’t have much hope of anything better. Some of the newer captives- like Chen and Reed- have fire in their bellies and hope in their hearts. Hank? He’s got a dead wife, dead kid, dead dog. No one waits for him; no one looks for him.

So fuck it. He’ll take what comes.

When Kamski’s paid hands drag Hank above deck, Hank plays as much of a deadweight as possible. He’s bound to the mainmast, and on the other side of the weathered wood he can hear Reed swearing under his breath. They’ll be left until morning. Reed, Hank knows, will walk away with stripes on his back. Hank? 

Kamski’s favorite threat is keelhauling. No one’s suffered that fate in the time Hank has been on board, but hey- there’s a first time for everything.

Hank drops his head against the rope biting into his wrists. Reed’s garbled insults and threats of vengeance wash over him, and for the most part Hank ignores him. Or, he does up until Reed pulls on the rigging they’re lashed to hard enough to jostle Hank.

“What th’fuck are you doin’, Rat?” Hank snarls to the wood blocking his view. 

“I asked you a phck’n question,” Reed snaps back. Hank rolls his eyes. 

“An’ I’ve been ignoring you.”

“Ha ha. It’s your fault I’m _in_ this phck’n mess. You oughta at least listen t’me.” Hank could argue ‘til his face turned blue against that. Yeah, Hank proposed the game, and tipped the odds heavily against Reed, but the kid should’ve known better than to accept that sort of challenge from Hank. Reed and Chen stick together, but Hank looks out for himself. He doesn’t owe reed a goddamn thing. “I said, did’ja get’em out?”

Hank flexes his wrists against the bite of too-tight rope, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Yeah, they’re all out. Didn’t know you’d care.”

Reed immediately puffs up, takes the defensive. God forbid he _care_.

“I _don’t_,” he growls. “They’re just dumb phck’n fish. I just can’t stand the sight of the cap’n’s goddamn smug face every time he drops another bag of gold into his desk, or phck’n files away those dumbass paper notes. Good riddance to the fish.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rat,” Hank rumbles. “Tomorrow’s gonna be shit enough without you running your throat raw.” 

Reed hisses something back at Hank, and it’s all too easy to close his eyes and ignore the man’s heated rambling. He hisses and spits like a rat in a bucket. Always has. Probably always will, if he doesn’t get himself killed first. 

Dawn comes like a lover’s touch, smoothing over everything with sweet golden light. Hank licks the salt from his lips. Reed finally trailed off not too long ago. If there’s one thing Hank can take grim pleasure in, it’s that Reed must be feeling a hell of a lot worse than Hank himself.

No one acknowledges them as the ship spins to life around them. The night watch vanishes below deck to claim their hammocks. The day’s first rotation bustles about, clambering up to tend to the sails and beginning the deck’s first wash. Hank barely catches the distinctive tap of Chloe’s boots over the general sounds of the sea, but he turns his head just enough to catch sight of her. She stands at the helm, checking their course against the rising sun. Not, of course, that their former course is of any use. Without the captured sirens to provide Kamski’s client, their future destination must be a little muddled. 

And speak of the devil- Kamski emerges from his cabin dressed in all his finery, playing at the lord he imagines himself to be. He digs his nails into the fragrant peel of an orange, and the thick skin rips in a burst of citrus mist. Hank’s mouth waters as he catches the faint scent from across the deck a moment later. Kamski catches him watching, and his thin lips tilt up in an oily smirk. One of the orange segments disappears into his mouth, and Hank pulls his eyes away, focusing back on the grain of the wood in front of him.

“Perkins, Weston.” Two of Kamski’s more bull headed followers prowl closer like starving dogs the moments their captain snaps his fingers. “Put ‘em on the port side.”

Stretched like canvas, they’re left to wait in apprehension as Chloe procures the knotted rope flogger. The paid crew laughs and mocks, but the pressed crew mills about in discomfort. Kamski never lays the ninetails on those on his payroll. Their punishments tend to fall along the lines of joining the swabbies for a day or two. Clearing the rat traps. Other unpleasant, but relatively painless tasks. But those he’s kidnapped, or taken as salvage payment? Yeah, they lack that same immunity. They have nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. At port they’re locked up like prisoners. At sea- well. Hank may be a strong swimmer, but even he can’t cross an ocean finless as he is. 

Point being, they become lesser. More like cattle to plow the fields and drive with a switch, and less like men and women. 

“Don’t clench up,” Hank hisses to Reed. The rat ignores him, eyes locked only on the wood ahead, but Hank repeats himself anyways. “Don’t tense. It’ll hurt worse now, but it’s better in the long run.”

Fingers sticky with citrus zest dig into Hank’s beard, jerking his head to the side. Kamski’s serpent eyes search Hank’s face, but Hank schools his expression into one of impassivity. Kamski will have nothing from him. Blood and sounds of pain, perhaps, but no satisfaction.

Kamski drags his teeth over his bottom lip, thoughtful, but he sharpens, his teeth flashing moments later.

“Fifteen for Reed, first,” the captain announces, releasing Hank. Hank adjusts himself on the propped ladder he’s stretched against. “Thirty for Anderson.” The abrasive scent of oranges hits Hank again as Kamski pries another section from the round. When he next speaks, he does so around the mouthful of fruit. “We’ll see how he fares after.” 

Chloe’s boots tap against the deck as she finally returns with the knotted flogger, and she does not stop until she stands behind Hank and Reed. The rope tresses smack together as she adjusts her grip, and then, without warning, they whistle through the air to crack against Reed’s back. Hank winces in sympathy and sickening anticipation. Reed’s breath hisses out through his teeth.

“One,” Chloe announces. 

The next follow in slow, methodical succession. The scent of hot iron tinges the air, but Hank can’t quite tell if he’s imagining it, or if Reed truly is bleeding. It isn’t until the ninth that Reed finally cracks and can’t bite back a ragged, punched-out sob. 

The final six blows crack through the air, and finally, Chen and the new guy from the last salvage ship- one who hasn’t learned to hate the fucking rat yet- help Reed down. He walks on his own, albeit stiffly, almost hobbling in a strained effort to avoid aggravating his raw, striped back. Chloe is firm, but not savage in her execution of punishments. Even with the relatively small number of lashes earned, Reed is lucky that she wielded the flogger.

Hank himself has even more cause to be grateful, with double the number heading his way. He’s been whipped before. He knows what’s coming. 

Still hurts like fucking hell. He’s never had quite so many as thirty in one go before. By eight he feels blood. By twenty he’s sagging against the ladder, held erect by ropes alone. By the last, he’s in this weird, floaty space. The sort of space he imagines must feel like falling to Hell. His muscles tremble, his back burns like he’s dropped down over a bed of coals and heated nails. He smells orange- nearly _tastes_ it over the tang of iron coating his bitten tongue. 

“How are you feeling, Hank?”

Kamski’s voice wraps around Hank like envenomed wool. The captain leans on the wall, watching Hank with all the curiosity of a child picking the wings off a heat-dazed hummingbird. 

Hank… may lose track of things, for a few moments. Just a few. Just enough time to be cut down and sink to his knees, hunched as if in prayer. He expects the white-hot burn of seawater to crash over him, just as it had when the bucket had been upturned over Reed some time before, but no salt seeps into his flayed skin. None at all. Not yet. 

Instead, Kamski follows him down, crouching before Hank’s slumped, bloodied form. Hank stirs, braces a hand against the tarred deck, and shoves himself into a slightly more upright position despite his screaming muscles. Sweat beads on his skin as the summer sun comes out to play, but Kamski appears just as unruffled as ever.

“You know,” the captain begins as if in thought. Although, Hank would bet however much Kamski lost to his jailbreak stunt that the smug sonuvabitch’s already perfectly clear on what he wants to say. “I have no need for a man like you. And it appears I _do_ have need-” He pauses, rolling the words around in his mouth like they’re rich as chocolate. “For an example.” 

Alright. Sure. So this is how he dies. There are worse ways to go. Probably. As a hired hand trusses Hank like a pig, he can’t really think of any, but they’re _probably_ out there. Death by castration-gone-wrong, maybe. Being eaten alive by ants. Oh yeah. 

Being skinned by barnacles as he suffocates on water seems to hit the top of the list right now, though. He should be panicking, right? Or at the very least terrified. As things stand, he’s just- numb. Everything is happening to someone else. Hank? Hank is floating, buoyed by some unseen force. He’s just a spectator.

“Captain.” Chloe’s voice reaches him from miles away. “Don’t you think this might be- excessive? What about a hanging?”

“Do you know how much he cost me?” Kamski’s slick, chilly voice slips a little into the hissing territory. “_Four_ ingots of Spanish gold. Each as long as my _forearm_. No. I want him to pay in blood.”

And Chloe says nothing further. Nothing at all. Not as the line is cast over the bow to sink down and drag beneath the ship’s hull. Not as Hank lets himself become a deadweight, as much of an imposition as he can as he’s lifted, pushed- falls.

The drop isn’t nearly as long as he imagines the fall to Hell to be, but the implications hang just as heavy. He bobs up to the surface for just a few spare seconds, gasping at precious air while he can, and then- then the line grows taut. 

Alright. There’s the panic. 

The sodden line drags him beneath the surface, and Hank’s body seizes in an involuntary fit of thrashing, but he’s angled inexorably down towards the slimy hull and the death that awaits him there. Hank forces himself to still, some part of him adamant that he shouldn’t waste his dwindling lungful on futile motions, but _really_, he thinks, verging on hysterics. What’s it going to matter in a few short moments anyways?

The bite of barnacles against his shoulder nearly forces a gasp of water into his lungs, but he grits his teeth and holds his breath. Perhaps that makes him a fool. Keelhauling functions as a method of execution. Rumors say surviving is _worse_. Best to breathe in the salt and be done with it.

But Hank is one stubborn bastard. He just- he can’t quite bring himself to give in. 

Another pull of the rope, and another strip of scored flesh. Bubbles burst from his mouth in a scream silenced by the briny water around him, and then-

And then-

The rope judders to a halt. And with it, Hank.

Clear thought evades him. The rope jerks and jolts like a heavy fishing line in a way that _can’t_ be from those hauling it above. Hank can’t quite suss out whether this is a mercy or curse, but he forces his eyes open nonetheless. 

The salt stings his eyes and the water muddles his vision, but with burning lungs Hank watches without comprehension as a man spattered in glowing red flecks and a frayed tail sprouting where legs should be tears at the ropes with sharp teeth. Bubbles escape his mouth in a burst as he loses the fight against need-driven reflex, but within moments the rope goes slack. A single drop of eternity stretches thin between them, and then those clawed, webbed hands dig sharply into Hank’s flesh. A brief glimmer of hope licks at Hank. A siren. A mer. Like those he set free. Maybe- maybe- No.

Rather than drag him to the surface, Hank’s apparent rescuer pulls him deeper, deeper, deeper. Away from the light, away from the ship, away from the air. Cold, dark water fills his lungs, and Hank convulses in the grip of unwavering claws as a high, monotone ringing echoes in his ears, and then-

\-------

Hank wakes to warmth. Hank wakes to pain. Hank- wakes.

Which is unexpected at all, really. For a moment, he simply breathes in the burning sun, marveling at the fact that he still _can_. The stabbing pain in his chest is reminiscent of the single instance of pneumonia Hank had ever caught, but nothing rattles when he coughs, so perhaps that means he’s in the clear. In any case, that pain pales in comparison to the inferno of his back and shoulder. Hank clenches a handful of powder-fine sand in his fist, and opens his eyes. 

The beach could pass as snow, from a distance. So perfectly white that his first glance feels blinding, it sticks to his face and chest as he pushes himself up with the care of a centenarian rising from an unexpected fall. He makes it to his knees, then to his feet for just a moment before his legs give out, and he hits the sand again with a punched out groan. Crawling then. With no one to see, Hank swallows his pride and carefully, slowly, so painfully slowly makes his way to the treeline.

Protected by the shade of rustling palms, Hank takes a moment to catalog his condition. His sun-pinked skin seems just shy of an actual burn, so there’s that small blessing. His trousers have dried, but without even the scraps of his shirt, he’ll need to find some way to protect himself from the sun if he’s to remain here for much longer. Wherever ‘here’ even is. 

By all accounts, Hank should be dead. Either to blood loss, drowning, or the siren’s own hand. And yes, Hank remembers the creature. Not well, mind you, but his presumed final moments stick firmly with him. Maybe this is his thanks for dumping the young sirens back into the water. Maybe this is some sort of mercy. How else could Hank possibly have made his way, alive, to land when the ship had previously been in the open ocean?

It’d be one hell of a coincidence otherwise. A miracle, even. And Hank has long since lost faith in miracles. Not to mention- He touches his shoulder, feels at the thick, stiff mass of pale green sealed against his torn skin. He can’t quite see, but tenderly reaching around and feeling at his back reveals similar material there as well. The placement and wrapping reminds Hank of bandages, but this is no fabric he’s ever encountered before. He considers ripping it off, to check the state of the inflamed flesh beneath, but he thinks better of that plan. With nothing to replace these- he’ll call them bandages. With nothing to replace these bandages with, he’d be walking around with open, unprotected wounds in a strange land. 

Best to leave them alone. 

Hank rests in the shade through the heat of the day. Thirst claws at his throat, but exhaustion weighs down his bones. It isn’t until the sun begins its descent over the horizon that Hank realizes quite suddenly that if he remains where he is, he will die. By now swallowing hurts. Sucking down seawater and sprawling uncovered in the sun did him no favors, and he hauls himself to his feet, fingers clawed against the raspy trunk of the palm beside him. Water. He needs water if he is to survive. Does he want to survive?

That gives him pause. He isn’t- sure. Stranded, injured, and absolutely alone is not the sort of life one covets, but as he swallows around dry, raw nothingness, he pushes into the trees anyways. He can decide to die later. There is no redo option on life. 

The outer thicket of palms gives way to broad-leafed trees as Hank stumbles inland. Birds screech and call around him, and insects flit about, crashing headlong into him on occasion, but he comes across nothing more dangerous than a wasp zipping by. Finally, the sound of running water reaches him from beneath the hum of the forest. The stream he finds could be crossed in a single step, and fallen leaves coat the bed, but desperation takes over and Hank falls to his knees. He drinks from cupped hands, heedless of whether the water itself is safe. All he knows is that it’s cool, and clear, and banks the fire in his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps to himself between mouthfuls. The sound of his own raw voice startles him for a moment, and a laugh escapes at the absurdity of his response. He leans over the stream and splashes water on his face, cleaning away stubbornly clinging salt and sand. Once he begins, however, he cannot bring himself to stop.

Mindful of the bandages, Hank washes himself in the narrow stream. With most of his spilled blood claimed by the sea, he focuses on ridding himself of the brine of salt and sweat. Dripping in the creeping darkness, his thirst sated, he sits back on his haunches, and plans.

Hank has never been trained in survival. A leatherworker by trade, then later a deckhand on a fishing vessel, he has not had cause to learn. This is to be a trial by fire, then. Sink or swim.

Speaking of fire. 

Without the blazing sun, the chill of the ocean’s breeze begins to set in. Hank has little time before twilight shifts to blackness, so he forces himself up again, and back to the beach. Maybe the stretch he emerges onto isn’t the same one he woke upon, but who the fuck cares. He’s stranded one way or another. By the time the moon settles a good hand’s width above the clear horizon, a fire crackles on a bed of fallen palm fronds and twigs. The wind rushing down the beach’s length had snuffed out his first two attempts, but after digging a small pit, Hank finds success. 

Now, Hank huddles beside the fire, arms wrapped as tightly around himself as he can manage without straining his shoulder or back. He adds building a shelter to his mental list of necessary tasks. A simple lean-to or something. Anything to shield himself from the chilly night air and the sea breeze. His need for food will become urgent soon as well. The emptiness of his stomach remains simply unpleasant at the moment, but if he can’t find safe food within the next few days, he knows this will turn to pain and starvation.

In the dark of night, though, he won’t have much luck foraging. Resigning himself to a cold, hungry night, Hank gingerly settles down on his stomach beside the fire. Sand. Ugh. Normally the grainy, scratchy stuff drives him up the wall, but now? After eighteen months at sea and a near drowning? 

Perhaps he can put aside his dislike. Just for a bit.

Hank finally, _finally_ finds himself on the brink of sleep when a splash and slap of something heavy on sand not far away startles him awake. He heaves up from his prone position in a heartbeat, and nearly falls flat again as pain rips through his back and shoulder. Careful. He must be careful.

He gingerly rises again- first to his knees, and then his feet. After a stomach-turning moment of uncertainty, wondering if he’ll collapse or stay upright- Hank manages a step forward, towards the frantic slapping sound still popping against the sand. 

A little ways away and about ten paces from the shore, a bulbous pink fish easily as long as Hank’s arm flops with small, startled eyes. Hank considers it for a long, long moment. This… is more than a little unexpected. Casting his eyes out to the dark, lapping waves, Hank sees nothing but the moon on the water.

How the fish managed to beach itself so far away from the waterline is beyond Hank, but hey. Food is food, and Hank is _starving_.

A rock takes care of the fish’s frantic writhing, and with the thing now dead Hank hauls it by the tail back to his fire. Without a knife or any other tool, Hank has no choice but to cook the thing whole or eat it raw, and he’s never been one for raw, briny fish. Wrapped in broad leaves, Hank drops it into the coals and hopes for the best. When he pulls it out much later, the flesh is tough and chewy and oddly bland, but he eats voraciously. What he doesn’t consume, he rewraps in the leaf to set back by the coals. With any luck, it’ll still be edible come morning. 

When he wakes stiff-limbed and dry-mouthed, Hank decides that eating old fish isn’t quite a risk he’s willing to take yet. He buries the remains of his dinner further down the beach, just in case the island holds scavengers he has yet to meet, but when he returns to his pathetic campsite, he meets another mystery. 

Shifting with each gentle push of the sea, a basket waits cradled by smatterings of loose foam. The tightly woven slats of _something_ rough and flexible feel soaked and pliable beneath his curious fingers, and the whole thing smells strongly of brine. He fumbles with the latch holding the flap shut, but he manages to work the brown toggle through its loop. Empty. But not alone.

An attached length of rope- bunched and tied around the middle to keep it short- leads him to a polished white knife, the blade of which stretches from the heel of his palm to the tip of his ring finger. The hilt itself is thick, but Hank’s large hand easily wraps around the rougher, fiber-wrapped surface. He runs his thumb across the flat of the blade- the _bone_ blade, he’s pretty sure.

And then, he looks out at the water. The teeming, ever-shifting sea. Hank has no explanation for the basket, rope, and knife. The fish, sure. He could explain that as an accidental beaching. This? 

Someone is out there. Someone who seems to have some kind of interest in keeping Hank alive. 

No other gifts present themselves in the days that come. Hank fashions a shelter at the treeline. By the end of the next day, he has a passable lean-to. Experimentation and sheer stubbornness reward Hank with something more reminiscent of a hut by the time he’s carved four notches in what he now calls the Calendar Palm. He can’t sit up in it, but it sure fucking beats waking up clammy-skinned and covered in dew.

No more fish miraculously appear on the sand, but Hank feeds himself with fruits he recognizes in the light. His ungrateful body punishes him for the sudden fruit-based diet, but the more fibrous coconuts are not yet in season, and Hank has found himself spending significantly more time working on his shelter and journeying inland for water than fashioning a fishing spear.

On the seventh day, Hank loops the coiled rope over his healing shoulder shoulder, hefts the empty basket in one hand, and bears his three-pronged spear in the other. About half a day’s journey along the beach to the west of his campsite, a sandbar juts out into the sea. On this sandbar stands a tiny grove of four trees, all of them bizarre. They’re surrounded by wooden spikes which, when Hank began to harvest them for his spear, proved to be living wood. In any case, several of them now compose his spear. The three prongs have been sharpened from smaller spikes and bound via carefully unwound rope to a longer, less whittled spike. 

To the east a cove pushes the beach inward, although a rocky outcropping flows from the treeline to form two arms each forming an extra, incomplete arc of the cove’s circle. Here, Hank believes he’ll have the best luck fishing. To use the spear he needs a bird’s eye view. Climbing on those rocks might just do the trick. 

Driftweed clings to the sea-smoothed rocks, and insects buzz about the rich food it provides. Beneath the water, the true shallows give way to a slightly deeper coral bed, and just after this transition, Hank chooses to stop.

He nestles the now-dried, tough basket securely between two adjoining rocks, and crouches carefully. With short loops and knots driven by muscle memory, Hank ties the end of his rope to the notched end of his spear. He tugs, and the rope clings fast. Thus satisfied, he stands, holds the spear aloft with his good arm, and waits. 

As hot, humid minutes trickle by and sweat breaks out on Hank’s neck, the coral-dwelling fish return, emboldened by his stationary shadow and incorrectly assuming that the stillness means safety. None of these are quite so large as the pink-scaled feast he enjoyed his first night, but then again, smaller fish means less to waste. 

His first throws are disastrous. The spear splashes into clear water, missing its mark completely. He sticks a fish around his fifth try, but it wriggles free and darts away to inevitably die somewhere Hank cannot follow. That particular disappointment stings. Hank does not consider himself to be a cruel man. He would have much rather pulled it up and bludgeoned it to a quicker death. Then again, perhaps that’s largely his empty stomach talking. When the sun hangs high and hot above him, Hank picks up his painfully-empty basket. His throat sticks when he swallows, demanding water. The rising tide laps ever closer to the watermarks ringing a few inches from the rock’s peaks, and Hank intends to spend all of high tide hiding from the sun.

To his right, though. Outside of the sheltered little cove. A flash of dark teal catches Hank’s attention and gives him pause. Something cuts through the deeper water beyond the cradle of these stones, large enough to be a shark. The wrong color, though. At least, Hank thinks so. He hardly pretends to know _all_ the sea’s secrets.

Whatever it is, it remains bound to the water and not quite within sight anymore. Hank adjusts his hold on the spear and picks his way onwards. Moments later, though, another flash of that strange shape turns his head on instinct, and his foot lands on a slick, slimy algae patch closer to the waterline. For the first time since his waking on this isolated island, a noise escapes Hank’s throat. True to form, that noise is a curse.

“Fuck!” he yelps, pitching back and to the side. He has only the foresight to cast the spear away from himself before his head meets rock with a sickening thud.

\-------

Perhaps- he considers when consciousness snaps back like a tensed coil unleashed- someone up there really is looking out for him. For the second time in as many weeks, Hank opens his eyes when he’s fairly certain he shouldn’t be doing so. 

He stares up at the blue sky, cradled by warm, salty water. A single wispy cloud valiantly tries and fails to blot the sun, and Hank blinks, then hisses as a touch presses his tender temple. Now, the sun vanishes, although the poor cloud has nothing to do with it. A man peers down, his pale brow furrowed to form deep elevens. His liquid brown eyes search Hank’s face, but all Hank can muster the will to do is part his lips and say, “Who the fuck are you?”

His voice cracks with disuse, and the tight concern held in those big, brown eyes softens to bemusement. A flash of color draws Hank’s attention to the bas-relief scales smattering the man’s skin like artful moles and freckles. They flicker a pleasant marigold yellow, pulsing like gentle waves on the sand. He reaches up to touch, and the man lets him. He allows Hank to feel the smooth, wet surface of his skin, grazing over those scales and over to where on any other man ears ought to be. Instead, graceful, flared frills occupy the sides of his head. This man- this _siren_\- grants Hank his unimpeded exploration, but the sneaky bastard in turn takes the opportunity to press Hank’s head wound again with that strange, slimy green stuff he holds. Hank flinches, but he doesn’t protest. Not now. His question remains unanswered, but Hank figures maybe he can give the guy a pass. He’s keeping Hank’s head above water, cradling his considerable bulk close with one wiry arm and tending to Hank’s head with the other. Yeah, sure. A pass. _This_ time. 

With Hank now settled, the siren returns to his self appointed task, dabbing the damaged skin and blooming bruise through Hank’s parted hair. Then, apparently satisfied, the siren bares his sharp teeth in what Hank hopes is a smile. The alternative, of course, is aggression, and Hank would rather not go against a pissed off siren in their home turf. Or rather, home surf.

The slimy green substance vanishes into the water, and the siren tilts Hank’s head here and there, observing him with a critical eye before deeming his work done. The siren’s long, muscular tail flicks languidly beneath Hank, propelling them towards the shore at a gentle, sedate pace. Every minute shift of the siren drives home _exactly_ how vulnerable Hank is in that moment. Those fingers clutching Hank like a doll are tipped in smooth, curved claws no bigger than a fox’s nail, but faintly serrated along the lower edge. Muscle seems to be all the siren is made of. He could rip Hank to shreds in a heartbeat.

Instead, he swims Hank shoreward until his toes brush fine white sand. And then, those hands are gone. That muscular tail flicks, driving the siren out of Hank’s reach like a skittish cat retreating. And yet, he remains close. Hank watches the siren slice through the water, then twist and head back like a man pacing. Fine brown hair plasters against the creature’s pale skin as his head peaks up above the water, and their eyes meet for just a moment before he vanishes once again, leaving Hank alone, up to his neck in calm, clear water. 

The sun dries Hank as he trudges homeward empty-handed. Crystalizing salt lends his skin an uncomfortable crust, but just as he has made his relative peace with the sand, Hank remains fairly certain he can adjust to this minor inconvenience. The prickling sensation of being watched plucks at his nerves the whole journey back, and although Hank now feels certain he knows to whom those watchful eyes belong, a fit of contrary irritation drives him beyond the treeline and into the privacy of the forest. As much as he appreciates the siren’s help, and as certain as he is that he would have died several times over without it, Hank does not take well to distant observation. He isn’t some specimen to be watched in its exhibit. Besides. With his fishing experiment a total failure, he needs to forage. 

Hank reemerges at his campsite when the sun rests a hand’s width above the horizon. The sticky pull of juice on his mouth still bothers him from his rather insufficient dinner, despite the thorough washing he attempted downstream of his preferred water source. He licks at his lips again, and kneels to rekindle his fire with a groan and the crackle of his left knee popping. 

Flames lick at the yellowed palm fronds he feeds into the fire pit, and smoke obligingly erupts up into Hank’s face, drawing tears to his smarting eyes. Nonetheless, before too long Hank has a robust blaze safe in its pit. The scene would be made so much more perfect by a fish to _cook_ with the fire, but at the very least this patch of man-made warmth gives him something to fix his determination to. 

When the stars wheel overhead and a single pop of light streaks across the sky to die like a dwindling tear, a loud fucking _smack_ erupts from the water. Hank whips around, bewildered, and he searches the dark water and its silver-streaked ripples. A dark fan-shape lifts up from the water and crashes down with another resounding slap, and Hank lifts up to his feet, brushing sand from his trousers. A head poked up out of the water, and as Hank ventures closer to the water, he recognizes the brown-eyes siren from before. Those speckles of scales glow a steady, sedate blue as he stops with his toes just touching the surf.

They regard each other silently for a long moment, and then the siren flicks closer, just barely. The frills framing his face twitch, and from the calm depths the siren produces Hank’s lost basket in one hand, and the spear in the other. Hank’s eyebrows make an effort to explore nearly to his hairline. A trilling click rattles from the siren’s chest, and he offers up the hilt of the makeshift spear. The siren refuses to swim any closer to Hank’s side of the surf, but against his better judgment, Hank walks into the water. Without the sun’s warmth, the water laps cool and dark around Hank’s calves, and there he stops. He reaches out as best he can without tumbling over, and when his fingers brush the wood of the spear, he clamps down and pulls. The siren lets it go without fuss, and Hank tosses it up the beach, out of the sea’s grasp. Next comes the basket. With the siren still refusing to drift nearer, Hank takes it upon himself to wade in deeper, well within the creature’s grasp. 

With the water now around Hank’s waist, he has little chance of escape, but the siren simply dips below the water, wetting his gills. When he reemerges, his frills flutter, and he holds the basket for Hank to take. The woven vessel feels way fucking heavier than Hank remembers it being, and with a furrowed brow he opens the flap. Spindly green vegetation drapes the bottom of the basket, and Hank wrinkles his nose. He reaches in to chuck the stuff, but the whole mass twitches, scaring the living daylights out of Hank in the process. He basket slips from his hands and hits the water with a splash, but the siren snatches it up immediately. He rummages through the seaweed and bares his teeth in a sharp-toothed grin when a yellow and blue striped fish comes into view. Those same sharp teeth dig into the animal’s spine, rendering it still and lifeless. He deposits the fish back in the basket, and the basket back into Hank’s hands, immensely pleased with himself.

“Uh, thanks,” Hank manages, glancing down at what he now knows to be his dinner. Huh.

He digs back into the seaweed, careful not to cut himself on the fine fins of the fish, and pulls out a clump. The siren’s flecks of color flash a muted amber, and a crackle of displeasure escaped him. Hank freezes, but the siren makes no move to attack. Instead, one of those claw-tipped hands reaches up to wrest a tendril of seaweed from the bundle streaming down Hank’s hand. He points very firmly to the seaweed, then to his sharp-toothed mouth, miming chewing with bared fangs. Hank stares, baffled by this display, and the siren seems to think that the issue is Hank doesn’t understand his meaning. Uh, no. Hank gets that. The seaweed is edible. Probably. What Hank fails to grasp is why the siren seems so dead set on keeping Hank fed.

With a spray of water, the siren surges up from the water and latches one arm around Hank’s neck. Braced between the press of his tail against the sand and Hank’s support, the siren uses his free hand to press the salty vegetation to Hank’s mouth. 

And no. Hank really doesn’t feel like eating raw, salty seaweed, but the siren seems so very determined. One bite won’t hurt. Probably.

The seaweed is _exactly_ as briny and tough as Hank expects, but he chews and swallows in a show of goodwill, and the siren’s scales flicker back to placid blue. Hank’s back begins to ache, but he dare not push the siren away, no matter how heavy the overgrown fish proves to be. The siren, in turn, takes advantage of his temporary elevation to examine Hank’s head, parting his hair with deft fingers and pressing searchingly at the tender, scabbing skin. Hank flinches, and the siren churrs soothingly in response. After a moment, he lets go completely to slip back down into the water. Big, brown eyes peer up at Hank from beneath the glassy surface.

And then, between one breath and the next, he darts away, leaving Hank completely and utterly alone. How such a large creature can move quick as a hummingbird, Hank doesn’t know, but after heartbeat of silence, he trudges back to shore.

The fish fills his stomach, but he doesn’t count himself as quite desperate enough to make a meal of seaweed. Perhaps it truly is edible, but Hank thinks seaweed must be an acquired taste. With a furtive glance back out to sea, he takes the mass of salty vegetation in hand and casts it inland through the trees. Let the bugs and birds have it.

With contact made, Hank sees more of his patron siren in the days that follow. The creature never seems far when Hank himself plods along the beach. When Hank next attempts fishing, the siren swims fretfully alongside, ever-watchful, ever-silent. When Hank sits to rest, the siren drifts closer, curiosity written in every move he makes, but he never comes close enough to touch. Hank speaks to the creature, but never receives a response. More likely than not, the siren doesn’t know English. Perhaps he can’t speak at all. What use is human language beneath the waves?

Still, Hank’s own curiosity pokes and prods at him. So many questions remain unanswered. He assumes this siren is the one that dragged him from beneath Kamski’s ship, but why? Why not leave him, or drown him? Why bring him to relative safety? And why provide for him? Why stay, and trail after him like a water-bound puppy? 

Midway through Hank’s second week of exile, he leaves his catch of the day roasting on its spit. The siren’s head pokes up out of the water as he catches wind of Hank’s approach, and Hank comes to a halt with the warm water lapping at his ankles. He turns the folded green palm frond over and over in his hand, and the siren zeroes in on the movement. Hank holds it up, showing off the clumsy angelfish he folded from the greenery, and he flicks his wrist, casting the folded frond out towards the siren. It lands in the water, but nimble, claw-tipped fingers pluck it from the ocean’s grasp and turn it over and over in a mimicry of Hank’s motions. As the siren inspects his meagre gift, Hank clears his throat and crosses his arms securely against his chest. 

“I tried to make a boat,” he announces in the cool night air. The siren’s eyes flick up to him. “The- uh- the leaf kept ripping, so. You brought me fish, so I figured- Here’s a little trinket. As thanks.”

Those soft brown eyes remain fixed on hank, but the smooth skin of the siren’s brow furrows in a universal look of mild confusion. Hank feels like an absolute dumbass chattering on and on to some sea creature who probably can’t understand a word he says, but he presses on.

“We’re not meant for the sea. Humans, I mean. We’ve always had to find new ways to get closer. So we make boats, and if we can’t make boats, we make toys. Like that.”

The siren glances back down to the folded fish, and he strokes the tip of one finger along a seam. Then, with one more look up to Hank, he vanishes again, leaving only the dying ripples of his dive to betray his ever being there. The gift goes with him, though, so Hank counts that as a victory. 

The next time the siren makes an appearance, Hank has again prepared himself with gifts. Yellow guava fruits load his basket, and Hank fully intends to share his bounty. 

“Hey,” he calls in greeting, pausing again in ankle-deep water. 

The siren tilts his head, silently watching. Hank flips up the flap of his basket and fishes out one of the sweet, ripe fruits. The siren perks up when Hank displays his offering. Okay, yeah. He’s interested. His tail drives ripples as it moves beneath the water, but the siren remains uncertain and unwilling to strand himself in the shallows. Hank takes a step back.

He shucks his pants and tosses them up the beach, out of the water’s grasp, and then wades out into the sea. With the tide out as it is, the only waves lapping around him are small and harmless. The true danger at present is the siren himself, and despite the ample opportunity so far provided to harm or kill Hank, none of those chances have been seized. Venturing into the siren’s domain for the purpose of sharing fruit can’t be _too_ dangerous. 

Or rather, it _can_ be, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way.

With Hank now belly-deep in the water, the siren matches his show of good faith by swimming near. He circles Hank slowly, and instinctive anxiety crawls up Hank’s throat. This is a predator. Something _much_ more qualified to be hunting in the water than Hank, and here he is, willingly placing himself in harm’s way.

But Hank trusts this siren against his animal judgment, and that trust is not misplaced. Rather than ripping Hank to shreds, the siren flares his fins and stalls himself more or less in front of Hank again. He flips over, floating on his back like an otter and gazing up at Hank with equally trusting eyes, his belly exposed as he reaches up for the guava. 

He’s pale, on the underside. Nearly while, whereas that dark teal color stains his back from the nape of his neck to the tip of his tail. Hank feels suddenly… humbled. More so than he thought he would be. Hell, he hadn’t anticipated _humility_ to be the thing he felt most acutely when face to face with this creature. But here he is, where he’s willing to wager very few men have ever stood. Waist-deep in water, with a siren inches away and not a mote of aggression to be split between them. 

The siren trills impatiently, and Hank huffs a laugh, finally depositing the fruit in the waiting, webbed hand. 

“Impatient bastard,” he grumbles in good nature. 

Sharp, perfect teeth sink into the bitter rind of the guava, and the siren makes a face not unlike a child confronted with greens, but Hank can pinpoint the exact moment he breaks through the rind and into the sweet, yellow-pink flesh beneath. Those brown eyes go big and round, and he swallows the chunk of fruit without chewing, then carefully examines the remainder in his hand. The siren’s pink, surprisingly-human tongue laves at the exposed flesh to taste the tangy-sweet juice, and within moments the guava is _gone_, sacrificed to the siren’s endearing greed. 

He reaches from the water again and tugs at the basket in Hank’s hands, and Hank allows him to take it. As the basket takes on water, the siren flips back over and grabs at one of the floating fruits, cramming it into his mouth with a satisfied sound. As soon as he swallows that one, he reaches for another, and another, and another until finally he pauses. That delicate pink tongue licks the juice from his lips, and the siren looks up at Hank. He seems to hesitate for a moment, and then-

“Thank you.”

Whatever Hank was expecting, it wasn’t this. Not this smokey, mellow voice. Not from a _fish_ of all creatures. And _certainly_ not speaking English. To be fair, he should have expected the voice. After all, what are sirens better known for than luring humans to doom with their song?

“Uh,” Hank manages after an embarrassing moment of staring slack-jawed. “No problem.”

The corners of the siren’s eyes crinkle as he smiles in pleasure, and he gives the basket of fruit another tug. Not much remains, but it’s certainly more than one person can carry.

“I can take? I will bring back.”

The siren gazes up at Hank imploringly, and what can he say but yes?

“Yeah, sure. Sure. Hang on. You’ve been ignoring everything I said this whole damn time.” 

The siren’s smile widens impossibly, displaying nearly every one of his unsettling teeth in a grin.

“Sailing men are dangerous,” he replies simply, and the solemn tone wars with the expression of glee he still wears. 

“Yeah, well. Fuck you too. So’re sirens.”

Whatever grasp the siren has on human language, it doesn’t extend quite far enough. His smile fades into one of bemusement, and rather than replying he tugs on the basket again and repeats:

“I can take?”

Hank relents and loosens his grasp on the basket. The siren latches the flap closed, and looks back up to Hank. 

“What is your…” He trails off, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then tries again. “What are you- called?” 

“Uh, Hank. My name’s Hank.

The smile returns, and the siren presses one hand to his pale, speckled chest, his scales pulsing blue. 

“I am-” And here, he says something Hank can’t begin to understand. Something clicky at first and trilly and raspy at the end. Kh’kahnrhuiich? Kihkahnureech? 

“I’m not saying that,” Hank announces, eyes wide. “Jesus, I don’t think it _can_. What about- How about ‘Connor’. Something in there sounds like ‘Connor’. S’that fine?”

“Fine?” The siren’s freckly scales flicker yellow.

“Uh. Good? Acceptable?” 

Something evidently clicks, because Connor dips his head.

“Yes. Good. _Fine_.” He rolls the word around in his mouth like a marble. The basket creaks as he tightens his hold, and a flick of his massive tail pushes a small wave of water towards the shore. “I will bring back,” he promises again, earnestly. 

Hank pushes his straggly hair out of his face, smearing salty water across his skin.

“Yeah yeah, I heard you the first time.”

And Connor does. Bring back the basket, that is. Bright and early the next morning as the rising sun’s pastels fade from the sky, a slap of Connor’s powerful tail on the water draws Hank’s attention. The siren holds Hank’s basket aloft with a sharp-toothed grin.

Thus begins one of the strangest friendships Hank can recall having. Not that Hank was particularly prone to friends. In Barbados before the hurricane, the majority of his acquaintances were met through Mary or the parents of Cole’s friends. After, when he’d abandoned his empty, leveled home and all its ghosts for a transient post on a fishing vessel, Jeffrey had been his closest and only friend. And now here he is, counting a singing fish as a friend. 

Hank shares more of the land’s wild bounty with Connor, and in return Connor brings him odd morsels from the sea. Connor pries a prickly green urchin apart and urges Hank to eat the soft orange innards. He slides a conch from its shell and shares chewy, soft bites of salty meat with Hank. He digs his sharp, sturdy nails into the seam of a closed clam, and rips the shell wide open. Hank brings a deep orange papaya and watches as Connor eagerly picks at the slippery seeds inside. 

They share. They bring each other gifts. They talk. Connor persuades Hank into allowing a thorough examination of his feet, and in turn Hank learns that the teal skin of Connor’s back and tail is as rough as damp sand. Hank slips into a comfortable sort of camaraderie with the strange creature.

So when Connor beckons him into the water on the eve marking one month on the island, he thinks nothing of it, and obligingly undresses, ready to swim just as he’s done most nights since sharing the guava. 

Connor flits back and forth through the waves of the rising tide, his freckled scales casting a playful blue glow in the fading light. A flick of his tail casts droplets of water up to the sand beneath Hank’s bare feet, and he takes a step into the water.

“Ha-ank,” Connor sings, and the hairs on the back of Hank’s neck lift at the eerie sound. The musical, drawn-out word sends a strange, oily feeling down Hank’s spine. Never before has Hank heard a siren’s song. “Join me!” 

Hesitation grips him. Something isn’t right. Right? 

Connor slows to a relaxed, languid float, and his tail flicks playfully again.

“Ha-ank,” he croons. “Come in. Please?”

This is Connor, he assures himself as oily, blanketing calm suffuses him. Connor hums placidly, the luminous sound winding through the air, and Hank takes another step forward. Then another, and another. The water around Connor shimmers with the light of his scales, and his wide, goofy smile puts Hank at ease. When the sea laps at his navel, a muted flash of red to his right draws Hank’s eyes. He moves as if suspended in syrup, turning towards the strange blotch of red, but before he truly has time to react, the source of that light rams into him.

Hank goes under, dragged down by ripping claws and biting teeth. He snaps back into himself in an instant, flooded immediately by adrenaline and fear. The salt water stings his eyes as he struggles back to the surface, but he only has time for one breath before Connor- _Not Connor, not Connor not Connor_ joins the unknown siren pulling Hank down. His claws scrape Hank’s scalp as he grasps a handful of hair and drags Hank under again. Sharp pain streaks down his back and lashes across his stomach, and between the teeth and the claws and the steady red of their scales, the water tints a heavy, metallic red. Bubbles erupt from Hank’s mouth as he loses the fight to reach the surface again, and the two frenzied sirens haul him farther from shore into deeper and deeper water. A trail of cloudy red follows behind them.

And then he’s being pried away, and the two sets of claws and teeth become one. He’s pushed up above the surface like a whale calf, and that first lungful of air _burns_. Gentle, nimble fingers frame Hank’s face as he rests on the sandpapery body of a siren- _his_ siren, Connor.

“Hank?” Connor rasps frantically. “Hank, look. Look.” 

Blood drips into his eyes from the furrow not-Connor dug across Hank’s scalp, but he does as commanded and peers at Connor. The siren’s bas-relief scales pulse a rapid, agitated red.

“Sorry, Con,” he mumbles, voice rough. “He looked just like you.”

There’s an awful lot of blood in the water, Hank notes dizzily. And yet oddly, the lancing pain begins to fade. That might not be good. Connor seems to come to the same conclusion. His mouth sets into a firm, determined line, and he pats the side of Hank’s face.

The siren positions Hank securely on his front like a young otter, and his tail beats a rapid rhythm against the water as he swims. How he knows where he’s going while he remains on his back, Hank hasn’t a clue, but Connor swims with a purpose. Not much later, he comes to a standstill and rouses Hank.

“Don’t breathe,” he commands, voice brooking no argument. Hank nods faintly in understanding despite the odd choice of words, and he sucks in as deep a breath as he can and holds it.

Connor tightens his hold on Hank, and the star-studded depths welcome him with arms enfolding as he dives. Hank closes his eyes against the saltwater, but he can do nothing for the increasingly unpleasant, then painful pressure in his ears. They level out as Hank’s chest begins to burn, but when he gives an involuntary, oxygen-starved jerk in Connor’s arms the siren does the strangest thing.

He kisses Hank. A deep, consuming kiss that somehow leaves Hank with a full breath of air.

And then just as quickly, he breaks away to focus on slicing through the water like a racing marlin. 

They resurface somewhere cool and humid as a morning fog. Trilling clicks and quavering whistles echo around them, some vibrating in Connor’s chest and others erupting from elsewhere. Stars dot the field of stone spikes clinging to the sky, which makes very little sense given that Hank feels certain they’re in a cave beneath the sea. His eyes slip shut against the dimly-lit, increasingly-blurry space around them, but Connor jostles him without mercy.

“Hank, look,” he insists, pawing at Hank’s face. “Look, _now_!” 

The distress in the siren’s voice tugs at Hank’s fluttering heart, but his lids feel like lead. He registers the smooth chill of stone beneath him as extra hands aid Connor in laying him out, and gentle, demanding fingers pry at his eyes. A luminous woman sporting black, tightly coiled hair looms above him, her lips thinned in a dour frown. She tilts his head to examine the source of the blood now welling up and staining his soaked skin red, before moving down to the deeper, more aggressively bleeding wounds. 

At one point, Connor hauls himself from the water and up onto the stone ledge, both to hold Hank still and keep him awake as the other siren works on Hank. The woman stitches Hank back together- or at least, that’s how it feels. Like needlework pulling and tugging on the frayed edges of his skin, drawing him ever more together and tormenting him all the while. Another siren makes an appearance though Hank does not look away from Connor’s wide brown eyes and vivid red scales, and thick pieces of _something_ layer across his skin.

Hank loses track of time- sleeps with his eyes slit open, maybe. Connor refuses him any chance at rest, but Hank can’t work through the dizzy fog to truly be _present_. And then finally, _finally_, Connor runs claw-tipped fingers through Hank’s hair, and when next he closes his eyes, Connor does not wake him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I mention a siren's 'Labyrinth'. I'm referring to a labyrinth organ that some fish like Bettas have to allow them to breathe oxygen. I see no reason for sirens to have human lung homologs, so they've got the fish version, labyrinth organs.

Sleeping on a rock never does a man any favors. Then again, neither does being mauled by two sirens. 

Suffice to say, Hank opens his eyes to a dark, star-studded ceiling of stone and a throbbing, radiating pain suffusing his body. The raspy groan escaping his lips does so without permission, but damn, nothing feels as it should. 

The sound of something heavy dragging across rock startles Hank badly enough that he instinctively jerks and makes a valiant attempt to roll up onto his knees, but the motion tugs painfully at what are _definitely_ stitches, and he ends up twisted, but largely still supine. The severe siren he vaguely remembers stitching him up rests a hand light as a leaf on his chest in silent warning. Hank stares up at her through the dim, humid air with wide eyes.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she warns after a time, and surprise flickers through him at the easy cadence of her words. Where Connor’s English is stilted and forced, this siren speaks smoothly, without hesitation. 

Hank’s throat clicks as he swallows, dry-mouthed. Salt bursts against his tongue as he wets his lips.

“Uh,” he begins eloquently. “Where’s- where’s Connor?”

“Seeing to his brothers. How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Hank grumbles. He gingerly pushes himself up on one elbow, and then further to sit up. The siren watches him with dark, glittering eyes that reflect the glowing ceiling like cat’s eyes. Hank regards her pensively, chewing on his bottom lip, then cautiously ventures, “Thank you, I guess.” He gestures to his body and the patchwork it’s become, spattered in bruises and shallow cuts and deeper gashes covered by that sticky green bandage material. “I, uh. Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Hank, yes?” 

“Yeah. Yes. And, uh. Do you have a name?”

Immediately, Hank feels like an utter dumbass. Does she have a name. Of _course_ she does. The question is, can Hank pronounce it?

“I am Amanda.” Hank’s thought process comes to a screeching halt at that unexpected revelation, and his bewilderment must show on his face because Amanda finally cracks the bare hint of a smile. “You are not the first human I have met, and you will not be the last. Your voices are so limited. Allowances must be made.”

Hank _could_ thank her again, this time for her consideration, but the words catch in his throat, and likely for the best. The only response he truly wants to give is full of sarcasm, but Amanda sewed his sorry hide back together. No doubt she could rip it apart. 

Amanda checks him over again and replaces two of the bandages, which Hank jostled loose in his moment of panic. Hank is to remain in the cave for the next few days for observation, lest he succumb to some infection out of reach of aid, but Connor immediately proves eager to provide for him for the duration of his confinement.

When the siren surfaces from the black, still water, he carries with him a pouch of pink-shelled scallops and a wad of that dreaded seaweed. Immediately eager to check Hank over for himself, he leaves the scallops unattended on the ledge and pulls himself up to sit like one of those hair-twirling maidens in shoddily etched ‘art’. Amanda slides herself into the water with Connor now there to ensure Hank doesn’t roll over and drown. Connor cups the sides of Hank’s neck with gentle, claw-tipped fingers and strokes his thumbs over the man’s pulse. He says nothing, simply watches Hank with a warming intensity. 

The days that follow are… uneventful. In a way. On one hand, Hank heals well under Amanda’s care. The worst infection he suffers is a slight pinking and weeping of his ripped stomach, but that clears up without much trouble. 

On the other hand, Hank… learns. He learns, for instance, that the glowing spots speckling the roof of stalactites like stars are in fact some sort of glow worm carefully brought back from across the seas generations ago. He learns that Connor’s people follow a matriarchal leadership system, with Amanda being the current matriarch, and a red-headed siren with a deep russet tail chosen to take up the mantel upon her eventual death. Connor names the red-haired siren, but the sound he makes is so utterly inhuman that Hank cannot _begin_ to recreate it.

“It means- the star that does not move,” Connor tries in an effort to give Hank a starting point. “The guiding star that does not waver.”

“Polaris?” 

Connor’s brow furrows, so Hank tries again.

“Uh. North? The North star?”

Ah, there. Connor perks up.

“Yes! The star of the North.”

A crack echoes around the sizable cave as Connor twists apart the armored leg of a crab he’s brought to share. The cave itself is considerable, easily the length of a ship and at least thrice as long. The faintly-sloped ledge Hank has called home for the last three days occupies a fourth of the space.

“And you’re all named- named like that? With meanings and shit?” 

Connor presses a briny, white-pink lump of crab against Hank’s mouth, and he obediently eats the morsel while Connor in turn nods.

“So what’s yours? What’s it mean?”

This gives Connor pause as he struggles to find the words. Amanda has taken it upon herself to teach her shoal the languages of men, or at least, those she knows. English is a newer one, and while Amanda has evidently learned by speaking to various recluses and other non-violent humans, Connor and the others learn second-hand. 

“It is… ‘He can survive great change’. ‘He can endure storms’.”

“You’re adaptable, huh?”

“Yes.” Connor bares his teeth in a satisfied grin and drops the empty shell of the leg down into the water. “It is also the word for an animal. Ah, I do not know the word.” He snaps the body of the crap like a dry leaf, and scoops out the yellow guts to consign to the sea. They send ripples out across the mirror-smooth surface. “They are like clouds, in the water. Like water themselves. Soft, smooth bubbles with long streams beneath them. You must be careful to not touch. Some can kill.”

“Oh! Jellyfish?”

Connor turns the word over in his mouth like the foreign thing it is.

“Jellyfish. That is what you call them? That is a silly name for a predator.”

“Yeah, well. Silly name for a goofy face.”

Hank can practically _see_ the gears turning in Connor’s pretty head as he struggles to make sense of the non-sentence, but the siren asks for no clarification, instead satisfying himself with another morsel of briny-sweet crab. 

The children make an appearance around day four, while Connor is away collecting water from the island’s miniature estuary. Hank welcomes the distraction. Without Connor, Hank finds himself bored out of his fucking _mind_, and when the first small head flickering with cautious yellow pops out of the water, Hank seizes on the diversion.

“Hey,” he calls, and the young siren vanishes into the sea again. Hank staggers over to the edge of his ledge, cursing the sirens he now knows to be Connor’s clutch-mates for their ill treatment of him. With intense concentration, Hank lowers himself to sprawl on his stomach alongside the ledge, and dips a hand into the water.

Patience pays off. The glimmer of faint yellow cuts through the water, and a little brown-haired siren surfaces in front of Hank, nearly nose to nose with him. Hank flinches back a moment, but the little girl reaches with dripping hands to frame Hank’s face. And then she bares her sharp teeth in what Hank knows from Connor to be a smile.

“Uh, hello,” Hank ventures, and this time around she doesn’t flit away. The bas relief scales speckling her skin settle on a steady blue. Then, one hand drops down to press two fingers gingerly against his palm, and it clicks. The golden-eyed girl from the ship’s tank. 

Nothing Hank says seems to register with her, and for damn sure Hank doesn’t understand the rumbling clicks and breathy whistles she responds with, so he chalks it up to a language barrier and resigns himself to charades. The girl comes to the same conclusion, her smile fading somewhat. After a moment more of simply staring at Hank, she dips below the water for just a handful of seconds, calling out so loudly that Hank hears her from his place in the air. 

He props himself up on his elbows as the water swarms with glowing motes like dancing, color-changing stars in the darkness. The brown-haired girl comes up first, and then one by one a good half-dozen more come up to gawk as well.

With no real common ground for conversation, the curious children take to playing amongst themselves. Hank watches fondly. Something tugs at his heart- not quite pleasant, but hardly painful. Like pressing on the blunted nerves of an old scar. He rests his cheek on one palm and contents himself to watch in the dim light with that strange sort of melancholy. 

When Connor shows up bearing a newly-refilled corked gourd- evidently borrowed from one of the humans Amanda maintains diplomatic contact with- he clicks his tongue in disapproval and chases the children from the cave area without any real aggression. Hank laughs at the display and sits himself up. When Connor swims near and offers the gourd, Hank accepts it and drinks, then says:

“They weren’t hurting anyone, Con.”

“They are not- They may not leave the nursery grounds without an older… an older… _one_ to watch them. Ahllss likes to lead the others where they should not go,” Connor explains, exasperation clear in his tone.

“Alice?” 

Connor’s barking laughter brushes away the lingering melancholy, and Hank finds himself cracking a crooked smile. 

“That is close,” Connor allows, eyes glittering with mirth. He folds his arms on the ledge and looks up to Hank. “She was hatched to deep-water wanderers. They stay here until she is bigger. Too small for deep water, but wandering blood never rests.”

And that? That’s news to Hank. Deep-sea sirens? As far as Hank was aware, they stuck to the relative shallows. 

“Never heard of deep-water sirens,” Hank observes, and Connor eagerly picks up the slack.

“Much bigger. Live longer. Ahllss father is big as black and white whale. Name means Looker. Mother is smaller, younger. Name means Carer.”

A twinge of disappointment plucks at Hank when Connor responds in the negative to the question of whether or not he’s seen the deep ocean, but the lack of first-hand account regarding that mysterious depth is a silly thing to be unhappy about given the marvelous nature of Hank’s recent life. Perhaps humankind is simply destined never to truly understand what drifts about down there.

The empty days drift pass, and Amanda deems Hank fit to return to independent life. Instinct paws at Hank, begging him to crawl back onto that ledge the moment he drops down into the water. Connor’s wiry, strong arms wrap around Hank, feeding the warning bells clamoring in his head, but hey. If Connor ferried him alive to this place while he was injured and bleeding out, surely going the opposite direction with repaired skin will pose no challenge at all. 

The journey again requires a sharing of breath, but this time with Hank fully aware, a burning scarlet flush colors his face the moment Connor’s tongue brushes Hank’s lips to coax them open. And what the fuck can he say? Don’t kiss me? I’d rather drown? How could he possibly say that, when the exact opposite seems to be much more likely?

Connor fails to see this as intimacy. That much is obvious from his confusion at Hank’s new coloration when they surface. He simply frowns at Hank, cupping the sides of his face as he supports Hank with his own body. 

“You are red. Are you sick?”

The heartfelt concern is unbearably touching, and Hank can’t bring himself to complain.

“No, uh. I’m fine.”

The doubt and worry remains firmly on Connor’s face, but at Hank’s insistence he finally drops the matter. 

Following Hank’s mauling, Connor ceases to be the only siren Hank interacts with. Although, perhaps this also has something to do with Connor bragging about the land fruits Hank shares with him. Connor refuses to admit any part in the sudden influx of curious sirens on Hank’s shore, but the sheepish, guilty look stealing across Connor’s face when Hank mentions his sudden social life speaks for itself. 

Not that the life is _particularly_ social. Things settle into more of a trade relationship as Hank’s injuries scab and his bruises fade away. One siren brings Hank a barnacle-crusted ax, and in return she requests green wood from the trees. Another brings Hank a fishing net untangled from around a turtle, and Hank trades a ripe prickly pear. Things continue in that manner, and as Hank’s situation improves, he turns to building a home- a proper home, not the nest of leaves and sticks he crafted in necessity. When the base of a small hut perches securely in the trees, Connor’s brothers reappear. 

And with them, they bring a young, shaggy-haired mutt. 

The soaked beast stumbles as it emerges from the water and onto the sandy shore. It very nearly collapses, but when Hank whistles the pitiful creature manages to plod over to his feet before dropping to the ground, panting harshly. 

“Did you steal a fucking dog?” he snaps at Connor’s lingering twin. The bigger of the two disappears beneath the surf rather than interact with Hank any further. The twin, however, rolls his eyes in what must be a universal display of irritation.

“Dropped into the water, far that way,” he explains slowly, as though he’s speaking to an utter idiot. One claw-tipped finger points out east. 

Hank glances down at the mottled mutt soaking the sand. It’s not too big, with puppy paws and a frayed, matted tail. Perhaps whelped on a ship, and cast overboard when it began to wean and the sailors came to the conclusion that they could feed no more mouths. It likely wasn’t the only one, but Hank refuses to think about that. Instead, he occupies his mind with the practicalities of keeping a dog on a desert island. First and foremost, the pitiful puppy most likely swallowed enough water to make itself sick while paddling for its life. His eyes flick up to Connor’s twin, then back down to the dog, and he kneels. The dog offers no resistance as Hank wraps his arms around it, and picks it up like a child. 

“Thanks, I guess,” he offers. Connor’s twin simply stares at him with those sharp, calculating eyes. Hank mimics the bigger one’s earlier actions and rolls his eyes. He turns in the sand, placing his back to the sea, and begins the trek to fresh water, but before he travels more than a handful of paces the twin calls his attention.

“If you hurt, I will kill you,” Not-Connor warns.

“Connor or the dog?” 

As if he’d harm _either_ of them.

Not-Connor seems to genuinely considers this for a moment, before he nods to himself and replies, “Both.”

Fair enough. 

Hank sets the young dog downstream of the portion of stream Hank takes his drinking water from. For a moment the dog remains limp as Hank washes the salt and sand from its brindle fur. The black mask of its face rests fully against Hank’s hand, but finally its dried nose twitches, and it twists in Hank’s hands.

Once the dog learns the water around it- _him_, definitely him- is safe to drink, he drinks and drinks and _drinks_ to the point where Hank finds it necessary to grab him by the scruff and drag him away lest he make itself sick. 

A dog certainly isn’t the _worst_ ‘Sorry for trying to kill you’ present imaginable. 

Hank names the dog Sumo, as he grows. He’s obviously a mutt, but the puppy grows like a weed until he stands shoulder-to-hip with Hank. Naming him after the massive Japanese wrestlers Hank once heard tell of seems fitting given how frequently the dog knocks Hank on his ass. Planting unknown seeds salvaged by one of the sirens proves difficult with Sumo around, given the dog’s determination to chew on the stick Hank uses to press holes in the black soil he finds in a rare clearing in the trees, but he manages. 

Connor, of course, _adores_ the dog, although Sumo remains too frightened of the ocean to interact with him on the siren’s terms. Connor decides that the only viable solution is to beach himself as the evening tide slips out. 

“God damnit Connor,” he grumps, soaking his shirt in the saltwater of the sea. “Of all the fool things…” 

Hank trudges the yards up to where Connor happily strokes through Sumo’s shaggy fur. The dog’s frayed tail beats an ecstatic rhythm against the sand. At least _one_ of them enjoys the situation. Sharp-clawed anxiety digs around Hank’s heart. He’s seen the remains of a beached dolphin before, and like fuck is he willing to let Connor suffer the same fate for a _dog_. He wipes Connor down with the tattered, water-logged shirt to keep his skin damp, and Connor basks in the attention. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor croons, but Sumo reoccupies his attention soon enough. The dog sniffs curiously at the fluttering gills, but Connor cups a hand over his snout, redirecting the animals attention to less fragile areas. Sumo simply licks at his hand, and this draws a laugh from Connor. 

Despite himself, a fond smile spreads across Hank’s face. He wrings out the rest of the ragged shirt’s moisture, and Connor churrs happily at the artificial rain. When Hank returns again with a newly-soaked shirt, he dabs at Connor’s face and gills, and then rests the shirt over Connor’s back and around his shoulders, then sits beside him. Sumo sprawls out on Connor’s other side with a contented huff, and Hank looks out at the darkening sky. The pinpricks of distant planets can already be seen here and there, and Hank buries his feet in the sun-warm sand as a cool evening breeze strokes down the beach. 

Connor’s claw-tipped hand rests on Hank’s knee. Even through the tattered remains of his pants, Hank feels the siren’s cool, damp skin.

“You look so strange,” Connor announces apropos of nothing. 

“Gee, thanks Con,” Hank responds, dry as a desert, and Connor chortles softly in his chest.

“I am meaning, your feet. You have no fins. This is strange to me. I have never seen another like you.”

“No?” The surprise in Hank’s tone is completely genuine. It seems to Hank that the sea _crawls_ with humans as they seek to claim every available scrap of the earth.

Connor’s drying hair bounces as he shakes his head.

“No. Amanda is alone in speaking with humans. They are dangerous. _You_ are dangerous.” Connor’s deep brown eyes meet Hank’s. “Even when you do not mean to be.”

The heavy air around them settles unexpectedly as Hank picks through what Connor says, and what he notably does _not_. 

“What, uh. What are you talking about?”

Connor remains silent for a long, long moment, instead pulling the wet shirt from his back to rub down his tail. Then, with the wet fabric draped across what would be a human’s lap, he says, “Our parents are telling us stories, when we are small. To warn us, and teach us. A story is that a siren chose to lose her tail, to be with a land-bound woman.” 

“How?” 

Connor very deliberately avoids eye contact, choosing instead to look out at the bloody red of the setting sun.

“She was skinned, and from the muscle beneath, her woman molded legs. She was cut open, here-” Connor draws a line down his sternum. “-and the labyrinth beneath twisted into lungs. She lost so much, but she gained much too.”

There’s a strange twist of wistfulness in Connor’s words, but Hank finds himself too horrified to speak. The silence following Connor’s summary is filled only by Sumo’s contented panting and the calls of the evening birds. Hank swallows around the lump in his throat, and simply pushes up to his feet again. He takes the shirt, resoaks it, and returns to Connor, who pointedly looks over Hank’s shoulder rather than at him.

Hank runs the cloth down Connor’s tail again, replacing the sheen of drying water with fresh moisture.

“Don’t ever do that,” he finally says when words return to him. “Even if it’s true. Don’t hurt yourself like that, Con.” Hank looks up to find Connor’s wary eyes on him, and he swallows again. “Look, you’re too… precious. You’re too precious for that. To be hurt like that. You stay like you are, y’hear? That’s all you need to be.”

In truth, the concept of Connor flaying himself for some human’s greedy ‘love’ sets hot coals of fury to burn in his chest. Connor’s eyes soften, and he lays a hand against the side of Hank’s neck, toying with the lengthening hair draped over his shoulder. 

“It is only a story, Hank,” he assures Hank softly. “A story for the small.”

But that- honestly, that isn’t good enough. Hank releases the wet rags to place his hand over Connor’s. He feels feverish against Connor’s cool skin.

“You promise, Connor. Promise you won’t do that for _anyone_.”

And Connor? Connor smiles. The sharp-toothed baring of his teeth seems far gentler than it should on an apex predator.

“I promise, Hank.”

Satisfied for the moment, Hank returns to wetting Connor’s skin, but the siren stops him.

“I would like to be in the water now.”

“See, that’s why you shouldn’t fucking _strand_ yourself,” Hank growls, but he can deny Connor very little. 

The way Hank picks Connor up under the arms and drags him backwards into the water is anything _but_ elegant, but Connor ends up back in the water nonetheless. He wraps his arms around Hank’s neck to keep him down where he’s crouched in the calm water, then loosens his hold to cup Hank’s face and stroke along his cheekbones. 

“I am seeing you tomorrow, yes?”

“Yeah, ‘course. See ya tomorrow, Con.”

An unhappy bark erupts from Sumo to see Hank nearly submerged, so Connor releases him.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

True to his word, Hank finds Connor waiting for him bright and early the next morning. Hank hucks a stick down the powdery beach, and while Sumo goes tearing off after it, Hank wades out into the water to greet Connor. Connor slaps his tail against the water in his delight, soaking Hank with the resulting wave of spray.

“Jesus fuck, Con. Really?”

“You are already in the water, Hank. Small more will not hurt. Here. I am having a gift for you.”

“Smartass.” Nonetheless, Hank obediently takes the brown oyster. Growth rings band the brown, rough shell, and Hank wedges the edge of his knife into the clamped lips. With all the practice acquired since his stranding, the oyster snaps open with little trouble to expose the fleshy meat inside. Something goes flying, though, and while Hank thinks little of it, dismay immediately sweeps across Connor’s face. He dives beneath the water and snaps a hand out to clutch at something or another.

“Careful,” he admonishes when he comes back up. “Careful, Hank.”

Hank simply tips the oyster back and swallows the slick flesh. It isn’t- it isn’t the _best_ oyster he’s ever eaten, but the briny taste certainly isn’t unpleasant. Connor watches, exasperated, and reaches for Hank’s hand. Hank tosses the oyster shells further out to avoid leaving them where he might step, and allows Connor to pulls at his hand. When Connor deposits something silvery and oddly shaped in Hank’s hand. Upon further inspection, that silvery something is a lumpy, nacred pearl. What Connor thinks Hank can do with a pearl on a desert island, Hank hasn’t a clue.

“Uh, thanks. Thank you, Connor. It’s… very pretty.”

Connor’s frills flutter in delight at the compliment.

This sets something of a trend. Hank keeps a growing collection of the pretty, useless treasures Connor brings him. Perfect shells and vibrant shards of coral and even a few object obviously human in origin. He’s fairly certain he has a cut emerald-studded ring in there, despite the barnacles covering nearly everything but the green stone. Hank remains confused, but Connor seems so eager to present these gifts and see them admired that Hank simply can’t bring himself to say anything. 

Not until Connor’s twin corners him on the fishing rocks does Hank catch on. And even then, not-Connor must explain it to him.

“He is- Courting, yes? That is what you say when you seek a mate?”

The look-alike explains this so simply and calmly, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. Oh yes, beautiful, marine Connor wants to court the land-bound, gray-haired _Hank_. What could possibly be strange about that?

“Uh-huh. That’s a word for it,” Hank manages. “You’re sure?”

Not that- not that Hank sees this as a _bad_ thing. He simply- He didn’t expect it. They’ve been exchanging gifts and food since Hank’s arrival, although the arrangement was admittedly quite one-sided at the start. And yes, Hank _likes_ Connor. Very much. _Very_ much. But courting?

“Yes.” The withering glare the twin sends Hank’s way loudly announces exactly what he thinks of _that_ question. _Why would I say it if I were not sure?_ “He gave to you a- Like an egg. A shell’s egg, but it never hatches.”

“A pearl.”

“Mm. He gave to you a pearl. You accepted.”

“So now we’re courting.”

“Now you court.”

“Huh.” Hank carefully sits down on the stone beside where the twin hauled himself up to perch, mindful not to slip again. Unlike Connor, he’s certain the twin would let him drown. 

Hank searches inward. Does he want to break the whole thing off? Cite cultural ignorance? Strangely, the answer is no. Hank could come up with a whole list of reasons this won’t ever work, and then a hundred more. And yet… 

Something warm and satisfied and _yearning_ takes root around his heart at the thought of Connor’s trusting eyes and how they crinkle at the corner when he laughs, and how utterly delighted he is each and every time Hank brings him a gift. Alright, sure. Courting.

“Say,” he begins slowly, looking over at the twin. “Could you get me one of those pearl shells?”

“What will you give me back?” the siren retorts, quick as a whip.

Of course. Naturally the little bastard won’t help Hank out of the goodness of his heart.

“What do you want?”

What Silas- as Hank decides to call him after hearing Connor speak his name- wants is, in fact, a bird. To eat. 

There’s something sacrilegious about catching one of the flitting, colorful singing things. Something even more heinous in wringing its lustrous neck. And yet, slaughtering chickens never gave Hank any pause at all. He does his best to draw on that memory as he brings Silas the orange-and-black bird some days after their initial conversation. Having finally managed to catch one of the nimble creatures, he refuses to give it time to spoil. Despite his disappointment at how little of the bird’s volume is meat once plucked, Silas savors his unusual snack with an earnestness that truly unsettles Hank. 

Nonetheless, he keeps up his side of the bargain. Come evening, Hank wades out into the water despite his common sense telling him to steer clear of a siren who has already proven himself dangerous. Silas, however, maintains their unspoken truce as he passes another banded brown oyster to Hank. 

“Do not hurt him,” Silas warns again. “I will-”

“Kill me, I know. You’re very capable and I’m suitably intimidated. Happy?”

Silas’s narrowed eyes and thunderous frown point to ‘no’, but nonetheless he leaves Hank to himself, flicking away back from whence he came. A flicker of amber beneath the water betrays the approach of another siren, though, so Hank remains where he is, with water lapping at his ribs as he waits. Sure enough, Connor surfaces an arm’s length away. His troubled eyes locate the oyster immediately, and he looks up at Hank.

“Why was he being here?” 

No greeting, no nothing. Straight to the point.

“He brought me this little sweetheart,” Hank announces with a faint smile. Now that Connor is _right fucking there_, the realization that hey, this might be likened to a proposal- or an acceptance of a proposal, depending on one’s point of view- clicks into place. His heart does a little somersault in his chest.

“I see.” Connor’s gill flare as he glares daggers at the oyster, and between one breath and the next Hank realizes how this may have sounded.

“Oh shit, no. Not for me, dumbass! I had him find one of these. For you.”

Uncertainty wars with cautious delight for far longer than Hank would like, but with a flick of the tail Connor closes the gap between them, and his grasping hands reach for the oyster.

“For me?” he repeats, voice lilting up hopefully.

“Yeah. Yeah, Con. I don’t see why not, so yeah. It’s for you.”

‘Why not’ will never be considered a particularly romantic proposal under any circumstances, but while Hank may not be a poet, Connor seems to understand the unspoken meaning if the way he digs his nails into the clam and pries it open is any indicator of his feelings. The lopsided, bent-angle pearl inside would be little more than a curiosity to any land-bound jeweler, but Connor clutches the silvery pearl tightly, gazing up at Hank like he’d hung the moon and all the stars besides. 

News of their mutual proposal and acceptance of courtship spreads like wildfire. What Hank takes that to mean is Connor went home bragging again. Why _anyone_ would brag about bagging Hank is beyond him, but hey. Hank won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. 

They come to an arrangement, before much longer. Dawns and dusks are to be spent together. The nights remain open for sleeping, and the days for their tasks and responsibilities. That is not to say that Hank and Connor see nothing of each other during the day. No, Hank finds himself gravitating to the beach like iron to a magnet, and Connor evidently feels much the same way. Although they do not define noontime as a special time, more often than not Hank finds his way into Connor’s waiting arms, and Connor in turn spends the head of the day stroking at Hank’s hair and throat. 

“This is the touch of lovers,” Connor explains, holding one of Hank’s calloused hands against the delicate gills lining his neck. “In water, we die if they are not bare. We trust our mates to protect our lives. I trust you, Hank,” he insists earnestly, and fuck if Hank isn’t threatening to get all choked up. He swallows around the lump in his throat, and Connor tilts his head to the side, giving Hank full access to tenderly touch the damp membranes. He feels the calm pulse of Connor’s heart through his gills. Then, Connor thoughtfully murmurs, “You do not have gills.”

“No,” he allows, wetting his lips. “I don’t. We, uh. We do something like that.” When Connor remains quiet, waiting for Hank, he continues. “We kiss. With our mouths. I mean, we could breathe through our noses, but, uh. Feels like every breath’s been sucked away, when you kiss the right person. Like they’re breathing for you. Like, uh. Like this.”

Connor allows himself to be moved without resistance as Hank cups the safer space at the back of Connor’s neck, where wet hair gives way to teal, sandpapery skin. Connor’s lips are cool and carefully motionless against Hank’s, and Hank can’t help a small laugh as he draws back just enough to explain, “You sort of, move with each other. You don’t hafta stay still, Con.”

“Yes,” Connor replies in acknowledgement. 

This time when Hank seals his mouth against Connor’s, the siren mirrors each of Hank’s gentle, coaxing motions. _Adaptable_, Hank thinks with some amusement. Connor’s wet hands cup on either side of his neck, and oh, there’s an idea. A small moue of dissatisfaction escapes Connor when Hank breaks the join of their lips, but the moment his breath ghosts over Connor’s gills the siren freezes, motionless. Hank tenderly kisses feather-light across the line of one gill slit, and Connor’s throat works as he swallows. Each of the five slits receive a kiss of their own, and Hank languidly repeats the process on the other side for good measure. Claws dig reflexively into Hank’s skin, tiny pinpricks that do no real damage, and he draws up to cup Connor’s face. 

Tears track down his pale skin, reflecting the shimmering cerulean of his bas relief scales. The sight startles Hank for a moment.

“You’re crying,” he muses, wonder coloring his tone. 

“I did not know I could,” Connor whispers.

The temptation to kiss the salty streaks away grows too great to ignore, so Hank does just that, until a small laugh escapes Connor and the siren pushes at his chest. 

“That is feeling strange. I think I am liking the mouth kisses best.”

“Not the gill kisses?”

Connor pets the side of his face, eyes glittering.

“Those too.” 

Come the sirens’ next breeding season, Connor and Hank will be considered a formally bonded pair, but to speak the truth, Hank fails to see how that will be different from the closeness they’ve developed since Hank countered Connor’s pearl with one of his own, and even before that. Hank decides this must be another cultural thing he simply does not understand, given how impatient Connor seems to be for the season now months away. 

Then again, perhaps the reason for Connor’s impatient anticipation has its root in fear. As Hank burns the vegetation and other debris cast ashore in the first hurricane since his stranding, one which Hank and Sumo spent safe in the sirens’ underwater grotto, Connor beckons Hank into the water.

“A ship is coming,” Connor informs him, head resting against Hank’s bare chest. Hank looks out to the horizon curiously, but nothing save clouds break the horizon. “No. To the other side of this place. I have seen them.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. They come. The last time a ship is passing here, they were taking our children. What are they taking now?”

Hank strokes through the soaked locks of Connor’s hair.

“Nothing, I’m sure. You know to hide this time.”

“And you?”

He presses a kiss to the top of Connor’s head. 

“They won’t take me. They’ll think I’m some crazy hermit. Why would they want me on the ship?”

Connor pushes himself up and frames Hank’s face between his hands, his brow furrowed and his eyes dark and sad. 

“Will you ask them to be taking you? To be taking you back to your home?”

“Shh. No, Con. Course not. I’m- I’m happy here. Honest, I am. I’ve got a home, and a dog, and food and water and _you_. Why would I leave?”

Despite Connor’s lack of response, Hank very nearly _senses_ Connor’s trepidation. 

A meagre two days later, a ship does indeed drop anchor beyond the island’s reefs. Hank stands cross-armed wearing only the scraps of the trousers he arrived with and the palm-front hat he wove. With his unkempt beard and sun-leathered skin, he truly must look the part of a wild recluse. Still, he waits with Sumo by his feet to greet the landing party and send them back on their way.

Only- He recognizes them. Hank’s arms drop, and he leans forward slightly, a hand sliding down to his bone knife. 

“What is your business here?” he roars when the Dancing Pawn’s rowboat draws near enough. A feminine figure stands abruptly, sending the boat rocking precariously.

“By God!” Chloe exclaims, hand over her eyes. “Anderson?”

“The very same. If you have no business here I suggest you turn around. And for the love of God, don’t speak of me to your captain. I will beg if I must.”

Pride be damned. He will not go back under Kamski’s thumb, and Chloe was never so cruel as her captain. 

“No, no. He- Hold a moment, I’d rather save my voice.”

With little other option, Hank forces himself to wait as crew manning the rowboat land. Chloe drops from the side into shallow water and plods up the soft sand to Hank. Sumo rises to his feet, growling, and Hank sees no reason to calm him. Chloe takes the hint and pauses where she stands.

They remain in silence for a moment, but when that silence breaks, it is Chloe’s voice that pierces the air.

“Kamski is dead. Has been, for some time. An unfortunate _accident_.” 

For a moment, Hank is struck silent in surprise. The callous bastard seemed to have more lives than a clutter of cats. He doesn’t believe that ‘accident’ bullshit for a moment, but he finds it difficult to truly believe Chloe. 

“Then why are you here?”

She waves a hand towards the smoke plume rising further down the beach.

“I thought to check whether a ship had run aground in the storm. The sirens make their home near here,” she warns. “And no doubt they hate our kind more than ever. I could not leave another human to their mercies.”

Mercies. Right. Hank still won’t get on that boat.

“As you see, no ship has run aground anywhere near here. I think it best that you leave.”

Chloe’s blue eyes widen to disks as shock etches into her features.

“Surely you will come with us. Surely you will not remain _here_. Alone.”

“I’m not alone, am I? I’ve got my dog. I’ve got all the fish in the sea. I’ve got all I need.” He leans in, a thunderous expression stealing over his face. “And I will never step foot on that ship so long as I live. Come find me when Hell freezes. Not a day before.”

Sumo erupts from Hank’s side in a spray of kicked-up sand, snapping the built tension like a dry twig. Chloe reels back, and Hank takes a step in the damn dog’s direction before recognizing exactly what drew the dog’s attention. Sumo prances before the surf, unwilling to so much as wet his paws, and not much farther out a familiar shock of brown hair peeks up out of the water. Hank tears his eyes away immediately, mouth open to distract Chloe, but she’s already looking, gazing thoughtfully at Connor’s head as he ducks back beneath the water. Lead settles heavy in Hank’s gut, but Chloe simply turns to him and says:

“I see. You are happy here? Truly?”

Hank’s eyes flick back out to where Sumo now whines at empty water.

“I am. Very.”

She reaches out with one callused hand to touch Hank’s shoulder, but then thinks better of it when she discovers nothing but bare skin knotted with scars. Her fingers curl in on themselves, and she drops her hand.

“And you know, that you are _very_ far from the colonized islands. You may never have another chance to come back.”

“Wouldn’t really matter if I did, _Captain_.”

The wind pulls at her sun-bleached hair, and Chloe draws herself up. She rests a hand on her belt and nods once.

“Then, Hank Anderson. You have my word that so long as I captain this ship, you will not see it again. I can’t speak for any other curious sailors, but we won’t impose on your solitude.” The solemn tone trickles away, and she allows a faint smile. “Good luck.” 

And that, as they say, is that. Hank allows Chloe and her crew- now exclusively paid men and women- to refill their water stock on his island, and then sees them off with crossed arms and a stonefaced expression. The very next thing he does once the wind catches the Dancing Pawn’s sails is wade directly into the water.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps when Connor makes his inevitable appearance. “I thought you were gonna be out of sight with the rest of your shoal. Instead you just about gave me a heart attack! What if they’d brought harpoons, Con? Or nets? What-”

Connor grips Hank by the shoulders and yanks him down. Hank collapses beneath Connor’s considerable weight and drops under the water. He resurfaces spluttering and wide-eyed, but Connor gives him no time to catch his breath. Instead, the eager siren wraps his arms around Hank’s neck and crushes a kiss against his mouth.

“You are staying,” Connor croons gleefully. “You are not to be going.”

“Well- shit, Con. Course I’m not. I promised.”

Hank pulls Connor just a bit closer, his own arms snaking around the siren’s back. Connor wraps his tail securely around Hank’s legs, and they remain there in what just might be the Caribbean’s strangest embrace. Connor tucks his face against Hank’s neck and trills, utterly delighted. 

Together, with Sumo sprawled across the sun-warm sand and the ocean enveloping them, they watch the Dancing Pawn drift further and further away, driven onward by the winds of the ocean. 

“Two months,” Connor announces, when Hank can blot out the sight of the ship with his thumb.

“Hmm?”

“Two months before we are mates.”

Connor’s muscular tail tightens around Hank.

“Yeah, I know. And then however long an old fuck like me has left. I’ll give it all to you.”

Connor hides his face in Hank’s shoulder again, and Hank can just about _feel_ the sharp-toothed grin. 

“You know,” Connor ventures. “I have heard a story, about a siren’s tears…”


End file.
